All At Sea (11 page)

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

It was really bad. As bad as the chlamydia thing, but worse because it went on for much longer. They really talked it through. But at least I had the advantage of having my pants all the way on the whole time.

Fiona’s dad coached my soccer team from under sixes. He loved me. He is really disappointed about how I have turned out. I was full of promise, but I have turned out really bad. Lazy, shallow, and dumb. Apparently everyone is going to streak ahead, start careers, get mortgages, and have children, and I have missed the boat. I am just a drop-kick surfer dude with no money and limited prospects, and when my looks fade, no one will want me.

I am actually fine with that, but I didn’t say so.

Remember the old surfer dude with the long board? He’s called Richard. He’s living my dream life. When he starts paddling for a wave every bastard on the beach moves out of his way. Surfers will drown rather than drop-in on Richard. He totally owns that beach. I want to be sixty-eight and pad out on the sand with my leathery old feet, in possession of a sweet, grey beardy, and have every dude nod on the way past. That would be awesome.

They weren’t even so angry about the fact that I was calling it off, because in the end they did confess that they thought I wasn’t ready. It seems nobody thought I was ready. They were angry that I was calling it off right now after Fiona had made all these plans for the secret elopement.

I did point out that I didn’t know about the plans, but that was not helpful. It led to more discussion, and a reiteration of the main opinion - about me being pathetic and having no career, or future.

It was her dad that did all the talking. He didn’t even yell. He just gave me a long talking to with this kind of genuine affection and concern. I would have preferred him to punch me. I can take a punch. It hurts for a few days, but after that it’s gone, and you’re absolved.

Her mum wept, but it was weird. It was as though she didn’t know she was doing it. She just rubbed her eyes every now and again as though she had an eyelash.

In the end we agreed that Fiona dodged a bullet.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

11
th
March 1.48pm

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

Which brings me to a more existential question about the acquisition of stuff as a measure of your worth. You’re probably not the best person to ask about that.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t sponge. I pay my own way, but I just don’t know why we need so much stuff.

Why is the collecting of things time better spent than carving it up in the waves? Why is going to a place that consumes fossil fuels and making plastic things that will ultimately end up in landfill more admirable and of use to society than teaching someone water safety and kinesthetics? I need someone to explain it to me in small words.

Why is what I do, which actually takes considerable energy, seen as apathetic?

Why? Why? Why, Millsy?

             
To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

11
th
March 5.23pm

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

OK, so now I just have to tell Fi. I can get a flight on Wednesday. That means nothing to you since I’m not sending you any of these messages. I am booking it right now.

This minute.

I’m doing it now.

Now.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

12
th
March 10.12am

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

I went to the pub. There were a few mates from school there I haven’t seen in a long time, and it was good to have a yarn and catch up. If anyone knew about the surprise wedding they didn’t say, because I guess I’m not supposed to know. But it was great not to talk about it for a little while, and be normal and be in a pub.

I love beer. I do. I know that seems to offend you. I would hate to perpetuate a stereotype, but come between and Australian and a beer at your peril.

Now I am back at home full of the aforementioned beloved brew torturing myself with images of the stupendous sex you might be having with Lachie.

I really did want to be the one to do that for you. As a gift, I mean.

Remember when you fell off that time and you went under and you scratched me, and punched me in the face. You wrapped your body around me. Your legs entangled with mine. I was gripping your wrists. It was all I could do to stay upright as the water pulled against me.

You were panicked. But imagine if I could give you that same intensity in pleasure?

I think about that. (When I am not feeling guilt and remorse.) How I might begin something like that with you.

Hmmm.

Fcken Lachie.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

13
th
March 9.05am

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

I’ve pinched my dad’s work laptop. I’m lying in the single bed I had since I was about three. I’m too long for it now. My feet hang over the end. It sags in the middle. It has a Transformers quilt cover that is see-through with wear. Mum would have put that on for me specially. They wouldn’t let me have a double bed. Mum thought I would never leave.

There is a yacht mobile hanging from the ceiling Dad and I made when I was about eight. All my soccer trophies are lined up on the shelf. There are about fifteen king parrots on the veranda rail, outside my window, eating sunflower seeds.

Google them! They are trippy.

I’d love to bring you here one time. You would like it. I want to introduce you to my folks.

I nearly told my dad about you. ‘Hey there is this remarkable girl I have met. She’s fun and quirky and I miss her before her shuttle car is even out of view.’

But there’s not a right time to say that.

It’s so weird not having my phone. I had it on me all the time. Slipped in my back pocket. Slept with it. Put it on the edge of the sink when I had a shower. Never know when there might be a message from my Millsy. My phone shivering in its little case with excitement.

I could look now. I could login. They are all listed there in my account, unopened.

You will be so angry with me. You will say terrible things. You will make me feel like shit, and I already have enough people doing that at the moment. If I read what you said it would be the truth, and I would have to lie here and wear it. I just can’t. When you’re mad you can make me feel so worthless, like something you’re trying to scrape off your shoe. If I read them, and you made me feel like that, I wouldn’t be able to stand up again.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

13
th
March 10.14pm

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

I’m getting on a plane again. I’m going to see Fi and find a way to let her down easy.

It’s terrible that I want to get that part over so that I can find you and see if you won’t let me kiss you for the longest time.

Look at the things I say – even sober – when you’re not reading them?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

13
th
March 10.33pm

—Private Residence near Belmont, NSW, AUS—

I have a picture of you on my phone. You’re tucking your hair behind your ear, and looking down and your mouth is open, in a kind of half smile. It’s this one moment in time. I don’t think you even knew I took it. I used to look at it and then scroll through your messages for a bit. It was the picture I was wanting to get rid of when I pegged my phone at you.

You’re actually much quieter in real life. And elegant. Maybe that’s why I want to see you get freaky so bad. You’d be less self-conscious, I think. More self-aware.

But I need to stop thinking about that and start thinking about the horrible, horrible thing I have to do in about… sixteen hours.

I’m going to do that first because it has to be done irrespective of what happens after.

We’re boarding.

Friday 14
th
March 3.39am

—North Shore Hostel—

It’s been an hour. Did you get them? Did you read them?

Friday 14
th
March 9.12am

—Totally Brewed Café—

I’m not asking you to do anything, I just want to know if you read what I said. Because this might just be your vacation entertainment, but it’s my life.

Saturday 15
th
March 5.32am

—North Shore Hostel—

A whole day and nothing. Nice. You could just send the letter Y and then I will know that you read them, but you just don’t give a shit.

Saturday 15
th
March 9.16am

—Totally Brewed Café—

Lachie and I are eating bacon and egg rolls on the sand. We’re about to go in.

Surf’s pumping this morning. I’m wondering if, instead of warning you about him,

I should have been warning him about you.

Saturday 15
th
March 11.00am

—Rub-a-dub Pub Coin Laundry and Liquor—

Hi. I read what you wrote and I appreciate your honesty, you sharing your thoughts while you were away. Your dad sounds like a wonderful person. My mom is like that. My step-dad, too. They are extremely supportive of me. I make my mistakes and they love me through it.

You’ve suffered with this mistake, I can tell. But can you appreciate how hard it was on me when you left? I don’t think you understand the depth of it. I’ve never felt despair like that. It was awful. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I’d never see you again. I cried in my room until my eyes and throat were raw with it. I couldn’t eat. I lost six pounds in four days and I don’t have that to spare in case you hadn’t noticed. I walked around like a zombie with your phone in my pocket. I held it in my hand when I slept. I started looking at your incoming texts from Sasha. “I need you, K” “Where are you babe?” Thank God it died before I lost control and called her back. Called her and Fiona and whatever else girls in your contacts to say: “Hands off! He’s mine now!” Then, when I didn’t have the phone anymore, I slept on the surfboard. I took a blanket and pillow out onto the deck that night and slept on it and cried. We’ve never even kissed and you did that to me.

I would have liked to have begun something with you, too. I’ve lost my breath thinking of you and me like that. A hundred different ways I have imagined your hands on me, your lips moving over my skin. I’ve imagined you being patient or sweet or fun with me. Like if I didn’t get it quite right at first.

But if we shared a journey like that and then you snatched it away, I’m not sure I would ever get over it. You’re impulsive and unsure of yourself and I can’t trust you with my emotional well-being like that. No way, no way, no way. 

Being around Lachie pulled me out of it. He makes me laugh. It doesn’t hurt to be around him. And the bottom line here is that the last words I asked you to write to me were: “I told her. It's over.” That's not what you said next. Now I'm sitting here at the Laundromat pub with your fiancée who is washing clothes that smell like jet fuel. Cristina’s washing a million of her little sister’s diapers and we’re all three lined up in a row at the bar, phones out, earbuds in. She is probably texting you at the same time as me and even though I’ve only known her a hot minute I feel like a terrible friend and person. Her shoulder is literally touching mine and I know about her future and she doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve this. But you’re right. She suspects something. I don’t know who she’s texting but there are sparks coming out of her thumbs she’s typing so fast. She’s worried big time. So it won’t come as a total shock to her when you cut it off. (If you cut it off, I mean…)

Man up, Kody. Not for me, but for Fiona and yourself.

Saturday 15
th
March 11.17am

—near North Shore, Oahu—

I said I’m doing it.

You think I should walk into the Laundromat in my boardies, dripping seawater on the floor, pull the headphones off her ears and say, ‘wedding’s off?’

Is that how it’s done?

We have dinner up at Sasha’s tonight. I can’t not go to that. I can’t cancel Sasha, because if she is pissed with me, there goes my income. You think I live the way I do from the money I make giving lessons? No. That’s pocket money. It’s the movie consult stuff that pays my way, and I subsidise Lachie too.